I guess I’m a wee bit too tactile. I can’t stand the scraping, grinding and pounding of the water pick. The X-ray bitewings gag me and the polishing paste chokes me. The glaring lights blind me and the drilling sound makes my skin crawl.

Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s how my last visit went with Debbie, the new hygienist.

Me: “Can I have a blanket?”

Debbie: “Are you cold?”

Me: “No, I’m just missing my special ‘blanky.’”

Debbie: Stunned.

Me: “Joking.”

Debbie brings a blanket and tucks me in as if she knows the drill. Dentist pun intended.

I decline her offer of safety goggles, opting for my personal pair instead. They are the darkened kind the optometrist uses when dilating your eyes. Only I got mine at a Utah truck stop during a summer drive through the salt flats. I save them for teeth cleaning, or in the event I’m ever asked to observe a nuclear blast.

Soon, she pries open my mouth.

Debbie: “Oh my! How often do you brush your teeth?”

Me, through a mouthful of latex-covered fingers: “I whave a whack wissues.”

Debbie, withdrawing her instruments: “What?”

Me: “I have plaque issues caused by high salinity.”

She brushes off my excuse and starts in with her water cannon. My feet kick the air.